


Leap

by under_my_blue_umbrella



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Fighting, First Kiss, Smut, fighting that leads to something entirely different
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-23 19:57:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20207374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/under_my_blue_umbrella/pseuds/under_my_blue_umbrella
Summary: Strike is angry at Robin for once again putting herself in danger. They have a fight that takes a turn in an unexpected direction.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was sitting here, working on my Musketeer whump fic and on Strike's broken nose in that other fic, and I suddenly felt the need to prove to myself that I can write something else than just h/c. Then this happened. Please see it as an exercise; as a first attempt at writing something else than platonic brotherhood and broken bones. 
> 
> This thing has two chapters. The second one will go up as soon as I've gathered enough confidence that it's good enough to post. I'm really nervous. Uncharted territory for me. *squeezes eyes shut and hits 'post'*

“We _talked_ about this! We _agreed_ we wouldn’t make a move on him! It was too dangerous!” Strike throws his hands up in the air, eyes glinting. “I can’t believe you-”

“I _what?_” Robin snaps back. Her cheeks are red, and so are her lips, pursed at him in a provocative pout. “Are you telling me we should’ve waited for him to disappear? For the police to finally get off their arses and arrest him?”

Strike glares at her. “That would’ve been procedure, yes.”

“_Damn_ procedure! He killed that woman! Beat her to a pulp and left her for dead!” 

Tears are shimmering in Robin’s eyes, of rage, of empathy, of too many emotions. Her hair, honey-coloured in the subdued light of the office, has fallen into her face and she angrily flicks it back. Nostrils flared, she doesn’t back away when Strike takes two steps and gets up in her face, his large frame trembling with anger.

“He could’ve killed you,” he growls. “He’s a trained security guard, and he had a weapon in his house. If he had been at home when you-”

“But he wasn’t! He wasn’t, and I got what I needed.” Defiantly, Robin looks up at Strike. Her eyes are a steely blue-grey today, her voice trying for an equally cool temperature, but Strike can hear the tremor in her words, the tremor that betrays how much of her heart is part of this fight, how, once again, her emotions made her throw caution to the wind and almost gave him, Strike, a bloody heart attack with her reckless stunt.

He thinks about the moment he walked into the empty office, about the dropping feeling in his chest when he’d found her note, her _‘I’m going in’_ pulling the rug out from under him. About his mad dash down the stairs, his _bloody leg_ almost giving out on him as he ran, stumbled, lunged for the BMW and raced to Snake Tooth’s address, yelling at Wardle over the phone to SEND. BACKUP. NOW!

She just doesn’t listen. She never does when it comes to delivering justice, and it infuriates him, God, it _infuriates_ him so much. 

Noses almost touching, Robin feels Strike’s breath on her as he tries to stare her down, the green in his eyes sparking. It should intimidate her, should even make her a little scared to have him towering over her like this, humming with rage, so close she can smell the residue of fear underneath the cigarette smoke and the wool of his coat. So close she can see the freckles on his lips.

And then, all of a sudden, her hand is around his neck and his hands cradle her cheeks, and their teeth almost collide as they plunge into a kiss. He’s angry, almost biting her, and his grip is strong, his stubble burning her skin. She is fierce, a lithe power pack winding into him, the scent of roses, of adrenaline, of silk washing over him as she has him by the neck and pulls him towards her. 

His hands, large and sure and shaking a bit, slide down to her waist, his arms wrapping around her, locking her against his body. 

_What the fuck is he doing?_

He’s doing what he _should_ have been doing all along, Robin thinks, or, rather, _feels_ as her breasts press against his barrel chest, his blue shirt and her white blouse snagging at the buttons. His mouth hasn’t left hers.

She tastes like anger and cream, and the softness of her skin is impossible. A coherent part of his brain is flashing red lights at him, a Charlotte-shaped warning of hurt and cuts and bruises that don’t heal easy, but he doesn’t yield. This _isn’t_ Charlotte in his arms, this is Robin who drives like the devil and brings him home when he is drunk and who doesn’t seem to care that he comes with a limb made of metal and scars; Robin whose hips are snug against him now, and one part of him clearly _is_ fully functional, but that, too, doesn’t faze her since, instead of pulling away, she leans into him further.

Tobacco. Tobacco and mint toothpaste and a hint of creosote tea. That is the aroma of Cormoran Strike, and now that she’s tasting it, she doesn’t want to stop. She explores him, coming up for air quickly and then burying her nose against his neck, his jugular vein pulsing, his smell overwhelming in the warm, soft spot below his ear. He is tall, and the fact that she has to stand on her toes to reach _just there_ is exhilarating.

“Robin! We shouldn’t-” He sounds breathless against her ear, a little desperate and utterly incapable of stopping. 

“Cormoran,” she says. His name, nothing more. Quietly, gently. Certain. All of his senses go as her belt buckle presses against his groin. Strands of soft golden hair catch in the stubble on his cheek pressed against hers as his hands glide over her back, her ribs stark underneath his fingertips. He reaches her shoulders and swipes his thumbs across her collarbones where her blouse doesn’t cover them. Robin shudders.

Another kiss. This one, without anger, without his protective fury and without her righteous defiance; this one has a different kind of fire. There’s the daring feeling of crossing a line. Of taking a leap. The drop into insanity. The urge to laugh.

And then his coat is on the floor, and her heels have come off. Her fingers fiddle with his unbuttoned collar, her lips devouring his, and he has to fight the urge to lift her, carry her and press her up against the wall. Hungrily, she molds herself against him - a perfect fit - and buries her small hand in his thick hair, curling around her grip. His lashes brush her cheek as she slides her mouth along his jaw, the tickle of his five-day-beard adding to the prickle-and-pop sensation coursing through her. 

Robin’s held back on wanting this - wanting _him_ \- and held back for so long, it’s like a thunderstorm breaking loose. Sulfuric need and electric charge. The air - what a cliche - is crackling between them. To have Strike against her, that broad, powerful specimen of male, his constraint deliciously slipping, sends heat down to her core.

“Wait,” he rasps, clutching her by the shoulders, his breath ghosting her face. “Wait. This is… we’ll take it too far. We should-”

“Get to know each other first?” Robin grins mischievously. “I think we’ve been doing that for the last three years.”

And then her mouth, still smiling, is back on his, and her hand tugs at his belt, and he thinks that she may have a point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. Be kind, but be honest: Is this good enough to warrant more?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Giddy smut. That's it. Don't act so surprised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys! I went to bed last night, calmed by a note from @libraryv and two comments that my ficlet was fine, even hot and that I didn't need to worry - and then I woke up this morning to this explosion of comments! I am exhilarated, I am thankful and I am grinning like an idiot. YOU LOT ARE FRIGGIN' AWESOME! And I will reply to everyone's comments after work, when I have the time. (using my coffee break to secretly post smut, lol!) Did I mention you are all awesome? <3
> 
> But, BUT chapter one was only the kissing part. Which means I am still nervous about taking it all the way. 
> 
> Without further ado, here's the rest. Short, I know, but I wanted to keep it fast-paced and not lose myself in too many details. *heart flutter*

Their trek upstairs is a mess of fumbling, kissing and almost breaking their necks as his false foot slips on a step and he catches himself on the railing, Robin burying her surprised shriek and ensuing laughter in the crook of his neck. His skin hums under her lips, the twinge in his knee instantly forgotten when they reach the top of the stairs, her tongue searching for his. Inside his flat - the process of unlocking an impatient, shaky affair - she follows him through the small room, her hand entwined in his as he pulls her along: an invitation. 

Many times, she’s knocked on Strike’s door, hovered in its frame, modestly peeking around the corner when he’d slept through his alarm, but he’s never bid her in. Being in here now, hustled inside by those large hands and by this elusive, private man, feels like conquering a fortress- no, it feels like entering one with its drawbridge suddenly let down. 

“Are you sure about this?” His eyes catch hers as he turns and, standing at the edge of the bed, takes her by her upper arms, pushing her away a fraction so he can look, so she can breathe, so they can both take a moment and _think._

She sees that his pupils are blown wide with desire, his irises a thin green ring around them, his crow’s feet and freckles and flushed cheeks close, so close, it’s distracting to see it all in such detail, to look unabashedly. Her heart beats fast and she marvels at her own boldness. Where did the old Robin go, so shy and inexperienced, so afraid to breach that barrier surrounding Cormoran, so desperately yearning to try? 

“I’m sure.” 

Sunlight from the overhead window reflects on Robin’s hair as she utters these words, bathing her in softness, and for a moment he is afraid of moving, of shattering the moment: Robin, _his_ Robin, with a voice like daffodils and a smile that echoes in his chest, in his _goddamn, very tight trousers_, is agreeing to - what? - make love to him, fat, old one-legged bastard that he is. 

And make love is what they do, in his ridiculously flower-patterned cheap sheets, peeling out of clothes, exposing skin and scars and parts of each other they’ve only ever caught glimpses of through rain-soaked shirts, thin hospital gowns, unbuttoned collars or necklines too deep to look away from.

Robin’s body, shed of skirt and blouse and pale blue underwear, is firm and soft and delicate and strong, and Strike lets his hands hover over that perfection for a moment before daring to touch. A delicious ensemble of curves and valleys, of cool skin and hot flesh molds itself against him with sweet little sounds as he strokes and nibs and coaxes and plants kisses _there_ and _there_, goose flesh puckering underneath his lips. 

Strike, stripped of his armour of dark wool and blue cotton, is hot skin and wide muscle, soft dark hair and an expanse of chest she wants to be held against forever. He’s wild curls and strong thighs and nimble hands as he swiftly detaches his prosthesis and envelops her in those big arms of his and in his smell of musk and smoke and anticipation. Pressing her leg against his length pulls a low moan from him, and she smiles when she sees him bite those uneven lips in an effort to stay in control.

They’ve waited too long for this to take it slow. Tenderness is a well-meaning concept; caution an idea quickly abandoned as breaths quicken, eyes darken and hands and mouths and skin meld, bodies flush against each other, heat drawn towards heat. The drawer of Strike‘s nightstand crashes to the floor when he pulls it out too far, hectically groping for a condom. 

There is Cormoran’s helpless _Oh, fuck, Robin_ as she finds out where to bite, where to tease and how to drive him utterly, magnificently crazy. There is Robin purring with delight when his whiskers tickle across the path of her hip bones and the insides of her thighs. There is, too, the intimacy of her shin against his stump and of his thumb tracing the scar on her forearm. 

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers.

Robin destroys the romantic moment with a firm, deliberate grasp between his legs that sends his brain flying out of his head. 

The slide of skin against skin. The fluid switch of position - he’s above her now, and she wants him that way, looming, large and incredibly careful. The tremble of suspense, and then his shaky breath as he slides inside her, Robin’s hands pulling him close. The fight for control - _God, she’s so tight around him_ \- and then her hips cant and he almost, almost loses it.

They find their rhythm. It’s a dance they’ve prepared for _years_. Blue-grey, her eyes swim before him, fans of golden lashes fluttering closed as she lets herself fall, and he feels her twitch, hears her sweet little whimpers as her nails dig into his hips and she crests.  
Heat and shudder and his weight held by his arms when he follows her, groaning, the release almost painful he’s held on for so long. It ends as it should: Her in his arms, that golden head resting on his shoulder, nose at his chin, and he presses a kiss to her forehead. Both spent and invigorated, she nuzzles into him, eyes closed, safe and satiated, curled up against his burly frame.

Sleep comes quickly, for Cormoran at least, as Robin lays still and breathes him in and is, not for one second, afraid of what comes next.


End file.
